After a couple more hours, I couldn’t keep going—I had to stop. I had to hold myself up as I wiped the sweat from my brow and fought to catch my breath. I had seen so much. Learned so much. It was dragging me to the ground. And all I wanted to do was sleep. Rest. Wake up and ask questions when my brain healed. But I knew he had a plan. Knew he had a destination in mind.
It was my legs—they burned, wobbled, threatened to collapse. But I couldn’t tell him that. Couldn’t burden him with the deadweight.
And it was as if he could read me like a book, understood my silence, sensed my exhaustion. Another set of chills broke out across my legs and back as he scooped me from my slouched, panting position against an oak tree and into the cradle of his massive arms.
I gasped then, gawked at him, so close to his tan face even in the pale moonlight.
“I can walk myself,” I told him, “I only needed time to catch my breath.”A lie. It was impossible to take another step.
But he didn’t dare embarrass me. He only smiled and said, “I don’t mind.”
It took me several minutes to loosen the tight flex of my muscles, the rigid position I was sitting stiffly in, and relax against his chest. I let my body then melt, curling into his heartbeat, his deep breathing, his sweet scent of cedar.
And then, I had fallen asleep easily with the gentle sway of his walk. I drifted away in the safest setting I could imagine.
With my ear against his heart.
58. The Treehouse
“Time to wake up.” Hisdeep voice muffled through his chest. “We’re almost there.”
Rich, honey light. Sunrise or sunset. No more darkness. No more crickets. No more shimmering moonlight. I flinch, still comfortable in his arms.
“Did you—did you walk all night?” I peer up at him through sleepy eyes.
“I did.” He smiles down at me. Not a drop of sweat. No sign of exhaustion.
“Is it morning or night?” I wince. Please tell me he only walked for a couple of hours.
“We’re nearing dusk.”
I slap my hands over my face, shielding my eyes from the horror.
“You walked all nightandall day!” I groan into my palms. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
That smile is different. It’s not laced with ulterior motives or strutting arrogance. It’s kind. It’s sweet. “You needed sleep. You’ve been through a lot.”
“You have too,” I say, pointing my toes, stretching my legs. “I can walk now.” I nudge his chest with my nose.
He lets me down gently. I straighten my dress, glancing back at him.
“Your arms must be so sore. I’m so sorry.” Carrying deadweight all night and all day. I can’t believe he didn’t wake me—
But that blurred, bloody flash of his young face hovering over me as he ran—ran—with me, beaten to near death in his arms. It was miles from my father’s house to Survivah…Miles.
It’s like touching a pot of boiling water. I flinch inwardly.
“You’ve—grown accustomed to carrying me over long distances, haven’t you?”
Here it is. The question.
“I’ve wanted to tell you for so long,” he confesses with longing like hot coals in his eyes. “But—”
I jump at the sight of the great mass of fur behind Dessin—no—Kane, stalking toward us.
Kane looks back at DaiSzek, smirks, then nods at me to keep going.
Only a few feet away is a mammoth sycamore tree covered in vines and thick clusters of ivy, hanging like a green tangled curtain. Kane grabs hold of the bottom of the green ropes, pulling them aside to reveal a treehouse at the top.
